


fic graveyard (a celebration of life and death)

by godtiering



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always Female Dean Winchester, Based on Neil Gaiman's The Sandman, Coda, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e03 In the Beginning, Episode: s04e20 The Rapture, Episode: s10e02 Reichenbach, Episode: s12e20 Twigs and Twine and Tasha Banes, Episode: s13e19 Funeralia, F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiering/pseuds/godtiering
Summary: Today I was going through my computer and google drive and I found a bunch of abandoned wips, most of which I had completely forgotten I even worked on. I thought I would organize them and post them up here in their incomplete form. I wrote most of these in 2017, when I was 20 but I think a couple of them are from 2018 when I was 21.The last time I completed something and posted it to ao3 was summer 2018, I miss writing a lot! Since then, I've graduated university and adopted a cat. I'm super into The Untamed now, I'm sure at least a few of you can relate. It's strange to think that almost everything about my life right now is connected to Supernatural fandom and the friends I've made there. I genuinely cannot extricate the narrative of the past few years of my life from Supernatural. I think that is it's legacy, but it's mine and yours to take the credit for. I'll always care about Dean Winchester and like, who knows man? Maybe it isn't the end for me and him.I'll provide fic descriptions and any applicable warnings in the chapter notes. I haven't really edited anything from the way it was when I found it, only insofar as to format it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Mary Winchester, Jimmy Novak/Dean Winchester, Max Banes/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. gay older brother to gay older brother communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a coda I wrote for episode 20 of season 12. that episode involved max banes doing something uh, Not Natural, to save the life of his younger sister, alicia banes. naturally this drove me insane.

A witch walks into the bar.

A gay witch walks into the bar and that sounds like an opening, a warm-up patter. The start of some greasy crude joke told by a man in a camo baseball cap to some other men clutching beer bottles around the neck with dry, chapped hands in a Hunter’s pub somewhere.

Dean looks up and he smiles, but not really like he’s happy. “I thought I’d see you here,” he says.

Max sizes him up for a second, looking unsure of whether or not to smile back. “Hi Dean,” his fingers drum a beat on the inside of his coat pocket. “Long time no see.”

It’s a joke and he’s keeping things respectful so he laughs, just once, quickly. “Let’s not beat around the bush here,” Dean crosses his legs on the bar stool.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Max laughs too, sharp and fast, like echolalia. He shows his teeth like he’s smiling, but that’s not what it is. He’s baring his teeth.

Dean just looks at him for a second, watching him raise his hackles. He quirks the corner of his mouth without humour, just sympathy. “Max,” he sighs. “I’d have done the same fucking thing.”

“I don’t know what you-” Max starts. Breaks off. Grinds his teeth. Gives up. “Okay,” he sits down, next to Dean. “Okay.”

“Buy you a drink?” Dean asks, taking a sip of his own.

Max doesn’t respond, but flags down a bartender and asks them what they have on tap. He seems resigned by their limited selection and settles for a generic ale that gets slid down to him, sloshing a bit of foam over the top of the glass and leaving a slick condensation trail across the wood resin of the bar. He grabs a soggy coaster for it and picks it up to take a sip, making a face when his hand comes away wet from the overflow gliding down the side. As he wipes his palm heavily on his thigh and licks the beer off his fingers, Dean follows the joints of his knuckles as they disappear between his lips.

“Where’s Sam?” Max asks, not meeting his eyes. He looks straight ahead at the lineup of liquor bottles propped up against the back of the wood shelves and curls a hand around his drink like he’s wrapping an arm around a date.

Dean keeps staring at him but the weight of his stare doesn’t seem to be able to pull Max towards him so he just studies his profile, takes a gulp of his own drink. “I sent him away,” he says, simple as that.

Max moves his head hesitantly as he turns to face him, with several slight jolts as if he’s a gear whose crank is being slowly turned into a new place. “Sent him away? With the car?” he looks surprised, and yeah sure, Dean’s made it clear how protective of his car he is. “How will you get back?”

“Not the first time I’ve gotten around by myself,” he replies. “People like me! They’re practically falling over themselves to help out the handsome mystery drifter,” he grins at his own joke. “I mean. It’s inconvenient, yeah,” he admits. “But I’ll work something out.”

“Dean…” Max begins and shakes his head slightly.

“That’s my name,” Dean retorts cheerfully.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, turning his face away to gaze intently at the bottle of tequila on the second to last shelf.

“Oh,” Dean raises his eyebrows. “Thanks for telling me then. Now I don’t have to worry at all about the potential consequences of you bringing your little sister back to life. It’s all fixed.”

Max whirls around and hits him on the arm, probably with more force than necessary. He looks frantically around them. “Shut up!” he hisses. “What if someone hears you say that?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “No one’s listening,” he says. “And if they were they wouldn’t actually take it seriously,” he pauses. “No one takes this shit seriously but us, you know? We’re the only people in the world who think about it at all,” he looks down at the people talking at the other end of the bar. “It’s pretty fucking lonely actually.”

“You’re lots of fun,” Max says, and takes a long drink.

“I have a goddamn bright sparkling personality thank you very much,” Dean says.

They drink for a minute.

Dean breathes in deep through his nose. “I did that,” he says. “What you did. Worse though, because I had to outsource and it, you know, cost me my soul.” Max goes hm. He’s not so much surprised that Dean has done this than he is surprised that he chose to share. He doesn’t get the impression Dean really opens up a hell of a lot, especially to strange men he’s barely met.

“By outsource I mean like,” Dean fumbles. “I went to a crossroads and I-”

“Yeah,” Max interrupts. “Yeah, I know,” he feels harsh. “I’m sorry, Dean. That’s really awful, I’m sorry,” there is more silence.

Beat one. Beat two. Beat three.

“How did you get out of your deal?”

“Uh,” Dean laughs, a jarring but genuine sound. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not funny, I mean, it is, but also it’s not really…” he looks down, biting back an incongruous grin. “I didn’t. Went to Hell. Very officially. Dragged down there and everything. Super big deal.”

Max reacts as though he’s been slapped. “Oh shit,” he says, eyes wide. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Dean waves a hand. “It’s okay,” he says, voice low. “I mean, I got pulled out. Raised. How many other people does that happen to? Nobody, as far as I know.”

“Still, Dean,” Max looks concerned and Dean wants to figure out how to make him stop feeling pity. “Still. Jesus.”

Dean shrugs. “I didn’t come here to make you feel bad for me,” he says. “I don’t need anyone to feel bad for me, s’useless,” he flags down the bartender again. “I just wanted you to know that there’s somebody else who gets it, you know? There’s someone else out there who’s been there.”

Max watches Dean order a whiskey, still nursing his own drink. Dean turns to him and raises his glass. “Here. Cheers,” he says and Max obediently clinks his glass against Dean’s. The sound seems overly loud in the suddenly quiet bar.


	2. every dean winchester body in that warehouse represents an elephant in the current room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a coda for season 13 episode 19 "funeralia", the episode where we find out naomi is alive. (extra huge congrats to her for surviving the series, I'm pretty sure tptb literally forgot she existed)
> 
> anyway, I used that Reveal as a way to kick off the idea of dean and cas actually talking about What Happened That Night.

Castiel slinks back to the bunker late that night. In his typical way, he makes no fanfare of his arrival. Dean is leaning against the counter having a drink. Maybe he’s had a few already. When he hears _Hello, Dean_ from the kitchen doorway he jumps so badly that he spills beer on his shoes.

He feels himself blushing in embarrassment and schools his features to frown at Cas. “Geez!” he can feel the tips of his ears turning red. “Wear a bell or something!”

"I talked with Naomi", and that’s just typical, isn’t it? Taking no time for pleasantries or any _Dean how are you’s_ or _Did you almost get killed by a witch today Dean’s_. He sounds drained.

Wait a second what the fuck did he just say.

Dean laughs, short and humourless. "Ha, uh..." he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. "You know for a second there I thought I heard you say you talked with _Naomi_."

Cas just looks at him, the way he did when there was something Dean just wasn't getting. His eyes were so tired these days, and if he was human Dean would've been telling him to get some sleep. Sometimes he almost did, anyway. He would look at Cas and open his mouth to go _Hey. You look like you're running on fumes, man._

He always caught the words on the tip of his tongue, realizing at the last second and feeling stupid. He just forgot sometimes. Self-centred, selfish, dumb to forget.

"I did say Naomi," Castiel's tone is flat.

"Oh," this was a joke right. Cas was trying to make a joke. A fucking weird, fucked up joke. "But Naomi is dead."

"Obviously not, Dean," he replies, clipped and agitated.

Dean feels a lot like he'd been punched. In the face, maybe. Or one of those places that makes you piss your pants. He'd heard once that could happen.

There was a pause.

"Oh."

_Is that all you can fucking say._

“Oh,” Cas echoes, with a subtle edge to his voice.

  
Dean blinks and feels like a jackass. When he finds himself feeling like a jackass, he knows only one cure. “Do you want a beer?” he asks, already walking towards the fridge himself. Cas doesn’t say no, so Dean gets him one. Hey if he doesn’t drink it, it saves Dean another arduous ten step journey to the fridge when he’s done this one. The way this conversation is going he feels like he’s definitely gonna need another. Maybe several others.

"I know we've never talked about it," Dean says carefully. "But-but maybe...we should. Now."

He would wonder why they never have but he knows the answer. They don't talk about this sort of shit. Any of it. All these years for Dean, it's been sort of a relief. If they don't talk about it, he doesn't have to pause, rewind and replay the way he begged on his knees for Cas, clutched at him. He didn't fight back. Not even for a moment. He feels a sudden sharp sting of humiliation at the memory.

They both know that if he hadn't snapped out of it, Dean would have let Castiel kill him.

If they never talk about it then they never have to deal with any of the lingering questions that are about as light and fluffy as a brick through a window.

Could Cas hear Dean’s real words in his mind like the world’s most desperate message written on his painfully unsubtle needy neon sign excuse for a human soul? There have been times before where Dean has thought so, that Cas could sweep away the curtain of that fucking _I need you_ that he’s replayed over and over in his dreams and see the ugly unvarnished truth hidden underneath. Warts and all. Jesus, no wonder he got out of there as fast as he damn well could.

_Pay no attention to the “I love you” behind the curtain._

Hop into the getaway car and floor it. Put the pedal right down to the floor and make the horizon eat your dust. Dean Winchester is in love with you. God help you now.

Sometimes Dean thinks about the moment at the end when Cas reached for his face and he believed, for a moment, that Cas really was going to kill him after all. He pleaded even then, before suddenly it was all over.

Castiel's expression is completely closed off. "What is there to talk about?"

"Geez Cas," Dean says. "You know. What happened. Back then."

Cas might as well have covered himself in ice. "Why would we? It has nothing to do with you," and oh fuck that maybe hurts Dean's feelings just a little bit.

"'Nothing to do with'..." he repeats under his breath. His next words are an outburst. "I was _there_ , Cas, _Jesus_!" he feels kind of hysterical, actually. "You almost killed me, or did you somehow forget about that _involving me_?"

He can feel his heart pounding. He realizes just what he just said. Oh God.

Cas looks stunned. If he had been shielded by ice a minute ago, Dean might as well have just opened his big mouth, coughed up a fucking sledgehammer and shattered it to pieces. He would say Cas looks like he's just been stabbed but well, Dean actually did stab Cas once and as far as he remembers it, Cas just smiled.

Dean wishes he could disappear into the floor. "Oh fuck that was such a horrible thing to say, I'm so sorry," his voice is small and ashamed and he's just praying he doesn't actually cry right now because that would be so fucking pathetic and he doesn't want Cas to feel sorry for him. This is why they never talk about shit. Because he can't have an adult conversation, man to man, without acting like a goddamn child.

"It's okay," Cas says. It doesn't really sound like it is.

"It's not," Dean insists, and here he goes making a fucking Incident out of things as per usual. "I know it wasn't your fault. I've never blamed you, I-" he _really_ feels like he's gonna cry. He clenches his jaw. "She hurt you. She uh, hurt you to get you to hurt me."

Cas laughs. That sound in itself is so startling, so rare and so out of place in this trainwreck of a conversation that for a moment Dean has to imagine that his feet are weighed down by concrete in order to prevent himself from just bolting out of the room.

"I know," he says. "That doesn't change the fact that I did hurt you."

He actually takes a drink from the beer in front of him, which really freaks Dean out. “You didn’t,” Dean insists. “You didn’t-” he supposes there’s a sliver of truth to the statement and amends it. “Well, you did, but you weren’t in the driver’s seat. So in all the ways it counts, you didn’t.”

Dean grabs the neck of his beer and takes not so much a sip as an outright chug. When he puts it back down, his blood freezes. Cas looks like he’s in tears. In a rush, Dean realizes that he has never, not once, seen Castiel cry before. He doesn’t know what to do, but he’s terrified.


	3. I like the funny genre show (you inherit your parents trauma but you will never fully understand it) haha dean's raised from perdition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like, a remix of season 4 episode 3 "in the beginning". it diverges from canon to have dean and mary interact more. it was nearly complete but there's a gap at the end of the new scene where something needed to be to bridge the return to canon dialogue and events. i just never finished it. 
> 
> man I use a lot of - dashes in my dialogue. supposedly people hate that. I used to like to say my dialogue out loud and move in the ways I said my characters were moving to try and like, recreate all those stutters and stops that happen when you're talking. I remember when I was writing this I was like, wow the whole time these characters are talking they are crying. lol. 
> 
> OH also the original title I had planned for this was "I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore"

_I wanna get out. This job, this life, I hate it. I want a family, I wanna be safe. You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst thing? Is for my children to be raised into this like I was. No, I won’t let it happen._

* * *

She’s kneeling in the dirt next to John’s body. Next to her father’s body. He’s suddenly struck by the simple truth that the poisoned legacy of their family line comes down to these two men, who just couldn’t resist teaching children how to kill monsters.

He never knew his grandfather before today, and yet it doesn’t feel as if he’s learned anything new. Finding out that his mother came from _the life_ doesn’t feel like receiving revelation. He hasn’t woken up to find new holes weeping blood from his hands. It’s more like this knowledge has always been there, etched into his bones. It’s as much a part of him as his skin and his blood and his teeth. A sense of inevitability. The certainty of destruction. In a sense it feels like the animal instinct to brace for unalterable cataclysm was a genetic trait, inherited by him in just the same way as he got his eyes from his mother, his hair from his mother, his smile from his mother. He got her broken heart too.

 _All right, if I do this then the family curse breaks, right?_ God, what a fucking joke.

When Mary looks back at him, her face is a mask of anguish. Her expression is so difficult to look at he has to force himself not to gaze down at the dirt so he doesn’t have to see her haunted eyes staring back at him. He can be a witness to her pain. Maybe he fucked all the rest of it up but at the very least, Dean can do this for her. He can see her, when no one else does.

Dean can’t believe he’s failed her again. There’s a part of him that whispers, _you’ve never stopped failing her. You are here because in every action, every word, every breath you have ever taken, you have failed her. Your whole life._

There have been times, before, when he’s thought _oh, I’m heartbroken._ He realizes that he’s never known what the fuck that actually means until this. Until _now._ He was given the best chance, the best fucking chance anyone has ever gotten in the world, to save his family. And he failed. He just _failed_.

He has to…he has to find out what-

“Mary. What did he say to you,” his words come out so quiet, but she still hears him.

“He killed John,” a tear rolls down her cheek. Then another. And another. “H-he-he k-killed my parents. He killed-he killed _all of them,_ ” she sags further into the dirt, like she can’t even bear to hold up the weight of her body anymore.

Dean’s eyes are filled with tears. “What did he say he would-”

“He said he would bring him _back_ ,” Mary interrupts him. “He said he would bring John back, not my parents but John at least and I said yes, I said _yes,_ ” her gaze is frantic and wild, begging him for understanding. “because I just can’t-I can’t be alone,” she says. “I can’t be alone, Dean I can’t-I can’t-” her shoulders are shaking so hard and she sobs and sobs, burying her head in her hands. “I can’t do it-I’m not brave enough I’m not…. I can’t,” she breaks off and continues to cry, trembling all over.

He rushes to her side and throws himself down in the dirt next to her, wrapping her up in his arms. She chokes and crumples into him, the side of her face pressed into his chest almost painfully. “Shh,” he says, rocking her, stroking her hair. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He’s never felt so helpless in his entire life, not even in Hell. He knows it’s not okay. Jesus Christ, he’s never known it more. He just can’t think of anything else to fucking say.

“I need someone t-to l-love me…” she’s sobbing and choking on the words. “I need someone to-to k-know who I _am._ ”

Tears are rolling down his cheeks and he buries his face in her shoulder. “I know who you are,” he’s getting salt water on her coat. “Mary, I know who you are.”

She’s almost hyperventilating and he doesn’t know what to do except to keep telling her to _breathe, shh, breathe._ “He told me I’d b-be _alone_ ,” the last word is a wail. “Forever-he said that I’d-” her breath comes out short quick and panicked and she presses her face to his shirt and wails into it. Screams into it. “D-desperate and _alone_ , and I just-” she can’t speak anymore and he continues to hold his mother as she wails like a child, like a wounded animal, soaking his shirt with tears and snot. She cries like someone who has been completely torn apart, because that is what she is.

“I’m here,” he says, and repeats it, again and again. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Mary clutches the lapels of his coat, double breathing, stuttering and choking on nothing, on air. It’s like she can’t even survive in the world anymore. Like she’s a rare creature taken from its biome by careless hands, now doomed to suffer and die in an alien land that was not built for her survival.

_God, how is anyone supposed to survive this._

She will survive this. She has to survive this. This can’t be the end. It just can’t be how it ends.

“Do you remember-do you remember what I said to you, before?” Dean says. “What I told you?”

She extricates herself from his arms and meets his eyes, so much like her own. “W-what, you mean the…when you told me not to get out of bed?”

Yes. Don’t get out of bed. “It’s so important,” he’s shaking. “I know it sounds-it sounds really stupid. But it’s the most important thing to remember. You can’t forget. Promise me-please, Mary, please promise me,” tears are rolling down his face and he sniffs self-consciously, frantically wiping at his cheek with the heel of his hand. “November 2nd 1983-just-”

“Okay…” she searches his face with wide scared eyes. “Okay, Dean. Okay.” She lets him pull her back into his chest.

In his heart he knows she’s already doomed. There’s nothing he can do to stop her from being brave, from wanting to protect her family.

 _I can’t leave,_ Dean realizes, like an epiphany. He can’t leave.

“John isn’t-” he says into her hair. “He isn’t all you have left. I-” _what are you saying, Dean_ , she says in a small voice, _what are you-_. “You have me. You don’t need him-you don’t have to-you don’t have to marry him, to have a family. You don’t have to be alone. I know who you are.”

“Dean, I can’t ask you to-” she says, confused. “We just met-” At that, Dean can’t help but let out a hysterical, wounded laugh. Mary studies his face in silent shock.

She sits back on her heels and looks at him with her jaw clenched. He must have seen that same expression reflected back at him in the mirror over a hundred times. “Who _are_ you,” her eyes turned cold and defensive. She grinds her teeth. “Who are you _really._ ”

“I told you who I-” he begins.

“Don’t _lie_ to me!” she snarls, and abruptly stands up. He stays kneeling in the dirt, looking up at her. “Why did you _know_ me? Why have you been acting weird this _whole time_? What do-What do you _want_ ,” her lip trembles. “I don’t-I don’t have anything left. I don’t have anything for you to take.”

She’s right. She has nothing left.

“I don’t-!” Dean exclaims, taken aback. “I don’t _want_ anything from you I…I just want to help you,” he stands up slowly with his hands raised in a placating pose in front of him. I’m not a threat. I’m not a threat.

She glares at him, not lowering her defenses. “And why on earth would you give a damn about something like that?” Another tear rolls down her cheek as she balls up her fists. It doesn’t make her look pitiful and in need of comfort anymore, it makes her look feral and at the end of her rope, cornered and capable of anything.

“Well geez Mary, you sure don’t meet any nice people around here do you?” Dean jokes, but there’s no humour in his wobbling tone.

“Don’t fuck with me,” she says almost serenely. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, I-”

“I’m your son!” he interrupts. The words hang in the air and she blinks at him.

“I just said,” she steps forward, getting in his face as much as she can with their height difference is. “Don’t _fuck_ with me.”

“I’m-I’m not. Jesus. I’m not, I swear, I’m not,” he laughs. This is the craziest fucking thing to ever happen to him. “I know there’s absolutely no way you’ll believe me. But get this! I’m from the future. I’m your son from the future. You can punch me now.”

Mary’s eyes are wide with concern. “You’re…crazy,” she says softly.

“I mean, yeah, I probably am!” he says. “But I’m not lying about this, or deluded. Come on, how would I even think to lie about this?”

“I don’t…know…” she says slowly, carefully. “Men do lots of strange things.”

* * *

“Damn it!” Dean slams his fists on the dashboard.

Cas looks at him with an unreadable expression. “There’s no reason to-”

“ _Fuck_ the car right now, God.” Dean’s heart is making its way up his throat. If he coughs it up into his hands right here and now, then maybe Heaven will finally take some goddamned pity on him. “God,” he repeats. “She doesn’t have to do this!”

If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Cas actually looks sorry. “She already has,” he replies. Statement of fact. Cold hard truth.

“Send me back again,” he demands, unhinged. “Let me do it again. Let me try again,” he swallows. “Please,” he adds, in a small, hurt voice.

“You don’t understand,” Cas says, gazing out the windshield into the dark night. “She always does. It always ends this way.”

Dean stares at him. “Well. Then I’ll make it end a different way,” he says, as if through willpower and love alone, it really can be that simple.

Cas doesn’t respond, doesn’t take his eyes off whatever spot in the uncompromising blackness he’s fixed on. “Damn it, Cas, look at me,” Dean pleads. “Look at me, come on, help me.”

“For what it’s worth,” Cas isn’t looking at him. He won’t, or maybe he can’t. “I wish that I could.” He moves towards Dean suddenly, jerkily.

“Don’t-!” Dean tries to scramble back, pressing himself against the inside of the car door, but before he can get another word out Cas has pressed two fingers to his forehead, and like a fucking Vulcan nerve pinch or something Dean instantly succumbs to unconsciousness.

He wakes up in his bed, gasping. Sitting up, he feels dried tear tracks stiff on his cheeks.

Castiel stands next to the foot of the bed, like a marble angel guarding his grave. Guarding his family’s graves.

“I couldn’t stop any of it,” Dean says. “She still made the deal,” he thinks of his warning. _Mary, Mary Campbell, Don’t leave your room. Stay under the covers where it’s safe, tuck in your toes to protect them from the monsters under the bed._ “She still died in the nursery, didn’t she?”

Castiel’s tone is carefully flat and dispassionate. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You couldn’t have stopped it” like Dean lost the homecoming game rather than the he watched his mother seal her own fate.

 _Sealed it_ , yeah. Licked the envelope, stamped it with a custom wax seal and paid for international postage.

“Why not?” Dean steps into his space.

“Destiny can’t be changed, Dean,” he answers in his deep, sure voice. “All roads lead to the same destination.”

Dean stares him down. “Well, if you ask me,” he says. “That expression is just a fundamental misunderstanding of how roads work.”

Cas sighs. “Don’t be a child.”

“No seriously man,” Dean says. “If you were giving someone directions would you just go-” he clicks his tongue. “‘Well, just take any road, it doesn’t matter what choices you make.’ Because that’s just fucking ridiculous. I say it does, okay? I say it does. I say that people’s choices? People’s lives? Fucking matter,” he sets his jaw and tries to ignore the tears springing to his eyes anew. “So why’d you send me back?” he demands.

“For the truth,” Cas says. “Now you know everything we do.”

Dean looks at him in frustration. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He follows Castiel’s gaze over to Sam’s immaculate bed and feels alarm bells sound in his head.

“Where’s Sam?” he asks.

Cas doesn’t answer. “We know what Azazel did to your brother. What we don’t know is why – what his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up.”

“Where’s Sam?” Dean repeats flatly.

“425 Waterman.”

He watches Dean grab his keys and jacket. “Your brother is headed down a dangerous road Dean and we’re not sure where it leads. So stop it. Or we will.”

Dean shrugs on his jacket and stalks out. He stops in the doorway and turns back to face Castiel. “I’m gonna save him, okay?” he says. “I’m gonna save my little brother. I’m gonna save my damn family.”

Castiel’s eyes stay fixed on his back as he goes. He waits until the lights of the Impala turn on and he can hear the gravel under the tires as it drives away. Then there is the fluttering sound of many wings. Then nothing.

* * *

_Hey, are you okay?_

_Yeah, no, I’m-I’m fine. Hey, uh, Mary, can I tell you something?_

_Sure._

_Even if this sounds really weird. Will you promise me that you’ll remember?_

_Okay._

_On November 2nd, 1983, don’t get out of bed. No matter what you hear, or what you see. Promise me you won’t get out of bed._


	4. being closeted but every time you have a sex dream about your best friend it gets faster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT*
> 
> I thought I'd lighten up the mood a little here. this is pretty much just what it says in the title. there is some descriptions of sexual content, and dean describes the memory of his first time giving a blow job when he was underage, with a boy who was his age at the time (both 17). he is reliving/remixing this in his dream in the present. 
> 
> this is actually the most explicit thing I'd written which is maybe why I got all squirrely about writing it and left it unfinished. it's not even that explicit yet!

After having a straight week (ha ha) of wet dreams about men, Dean woke up and finally tore down the art installation of denial that had been the crown jewel of his mind for years.

_Okay, I like men._

His life had changed a lot over the past few years and he’d changed his attitude along with it. Wanting men to fuck you wasn’t the end of the world. He’d _seen_ the end of the world before. He and Sam were good, he was the best damn Hunter alive, he had his own room now, and he liked men. But what was the next step?

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

He stumbled into the library to see Sam already up and working. “You get enough sleep, nerd?” he teased. “Or have you been translating shit all night?”

“I know you’re trying to make fun, but I’ve actually been sleeping so great the past couple weeks,” Sam replied, and wordlessly poured Dean some coffee. “Getting my eight hours and everything. More, even.”

Dean gratefully accepted the mug and took a sip. “Yeah, well, nothing like a demon dry spell to get yourself some rest, I suppose.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Dean in his Dead Guy robe cradling his coffee and Sam reading with his head bent over, brushing his hair out of his eyes every so often when it fell in his face.

A thought suddenly occurred to Dean: _Should I tell Sam?_

Fuck it.

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean reached across the table and poured himself some more coffee. “You listening? I got something to tell you.”

Sam followed his finger to the end of the sentence he was in the process of translating and looks up. “Yeah, go ahead, shoot,” he said.

Dean took a huge swig of black coffee, for courage. There was a pause, while Sam looked at him expectantly and he searched for the balls to say what he needs to say. _Jesus Christ_ , _on the mental count of three._

_1_

_2_

_3…_

“I like men, Sam. Like, I’m into them. Just thought you should know.”

Many happy expressions flickered through Sam’s face at once and his mouth settled into a soft, loving smile. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Dean’s heart was beating so fast. He’d known Sam would be good, of course. Didn’t make shit that much easier to talk about.

“For telling me, you doofus,” Sam grinned at him. “Duh. Thanks for trusting me. I’m happy for you, man, I’m really happy for you. I’m proud of you.”

Dean was blushing red to the tips of his ears. “Thanks, uh,” his voice cracked and he felt tears pushing at the back of his eyes. What the fuck. “Thanks, Sammy.”

He felt exhausted on a bone-deep level, like he’d just fought his way out of a nest of vampires.

“Does anyone else know?” Sam stole a sip of Dean’s coffee.

“What?” he pulled himself back from his post-Coming Out To My Baby Brother reverie. “Oh-uh, not yet, no. Just you.”

“Are you going to tell Cas?” Sam’s tone was conversational but he was staring at Dean with an inadvertent wide-eyed intensity normally only practiced by the aforementioned angel.

Dean choked on his coffee. “Uh, I don’t know? I haven’t really thought much about it, uh, I-maybe I guess?”

Sam started blinking normally again. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrogate you. It’s your business, I just want to make sure I respect your business, you know.”

“It’s okay, um,” he resisted the urge to run from the bunker and never ever come back ever. “It doesn’t always have to be a secret from people we know… you know? We can talk about it in front of him sometime. Thanks,” he finished lamely, and then promptly jumped out of his skin when Castiel walked into the room carrying a plate of toast and a bottle of honey shaped like a bear.

“Talk about what in front of who?” Castiel settled himself casually in the seat right next to Dean, shifting the legs of the chair to move even closer. He did it so nonchalantly, like it meant nothing at all to sit within kissing distance to your closest friend, who’s been having secret high-definition quality vivid sex dreams about you.

Sam saw Dean’s panicked eyes immediately flicker to the sword sitting in its stand nearby. Saving his brother from swallowing his own tongue, and possibly committing hari kari, he smoothly stepped in. “Just Men of Letters stuff. We were talking about which Hunters we trust to tell stuff to,” he poured some coffee into Castiel’s waiting mug.

“Oh, I see,” Cas readily accepted the answer. “This information is very valuable; I understand your caution.”

Dean’s ears were ringing. He watched Cas squeeze some honey onto his toast, and then start spreading it around with his finger. It was meticulous work; Cas seemed determined to have a perfectly even layer on every section of bread. He swiped it back and forth across the middle and carefully ran his finger along the edges. Finally, he brought his honey-covered fingers up to his mouth and licked them clean. Then he put them in his mouth and sucked.

_Oh my fucking God._

Dean abruptly stood up and stormed out of the room. Sam and Castiel watched him go, Sam with a mixed expression of concern and amusement, Castiel with his head tilted, looking bewildered.

Seconds later, Dean stormed back in and smacked a butter knife down next to Castiel’s plate. The metal clattered softly on the wood table. “Do you know what this is?” he demanded, before turning on his heel and leaving again.

Castiel chewed on his toast thoughtfully.

* * *

Dean ended up spending some quality time with the punching bag. He stopped when his hands started to burn and retreated to his room with the door closed. What the hell was he supposed to get up to now? He was glad that America seemed to be so fucking safe right now, but he was crawling out of his skin with frustration without shit to do.

 _Or **someone** to do, _his mind editorialized unhelpfully and he groaned.

He resorted to reading the newspaper. The _newspaper._ Scouring the local headlines for any possible hints to their Type of Thing, even a passing chance that might get them out of the bunker to investigate, he was forced to conclude that there truly was nothing new.

This vacation should be a dream come true, God knows he wanted to settle down someday. So why was he so damn tense?

He fell asleep leaning against his headboard with the paper on his chest.

* * *

He was watching his teenage self suck off that boy from his senior woodshop class. Christ, what had been his name? Connor or Colin or something like that.

In the way of dreams, he was watching himself give a blowjob for the first time, but he was also giving it. He was both versions of himself and neither of them, able to see and feel from both outside and in.

He watched as the boy across from him and above him made a small aborted hip thrust and felt himself choke. Teen Dean pulled himself off of Woodshop What’s-His-Face and he felt the dick slide out of his mouth. “Don’t move,” He heard himself say, before feeling himself take a deep breath and gamely try again.

He couldn’t take it in very far, hadn’t been able to the first time he’d done this, but he made up for it by wrapping his hand around the rest of it like he’d seen in porn he’d furtively watched on mute while John had been away and Sammy had been asleep. The rhythm of his mouth and hand were uneven, but it didn’t matter. Soon, Connor/Colin twitched involuntarily and came without warning, getting some on Dean’s tongue before he spluttered and pulled off, splashing the rest in a messy trail down his chin.

Suddenly, the dream tilted sideways and Dean was fully himself, in his own room, on his knees staring up at Castiel. The angel smiled down at him and carded his fingers gently through his hair, before swiping his thumb through the mess just underneath Dean’s lip. “You’re so good, Dean,” he said affectionately, reverently. “So good.”

Dean sucked his finger like there was honey on it. 

Dean woke up and swore loudly. The bed was a mess, the pillows flung to the floor and the blankets hanging off the side of the mattress. His feet were tangled in the sheets. Quickly, he kicked them off and sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands.

Someone knocked on the door. _Please don’t be Cas._

“Hey Dean, you alive in there?” It wasn’t Cas. “We were gonna go into town to get some lunch, you wanna come with?”

“Yes!” Dean almost yelled in reply. This bunker was cursed probably, with some evil gay sex curse. He needed to get out of here. He needed to breathe some non-gay air. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Okay first thing’s first, he needed to change his clothes.


	5. the year without a dcbb pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I signed up for dcbb 2017 and quickly dropped out bc i fucking hated everything i had written. 
> 
> my plan was to write an au heavily inspired by the universe of the sandman comics. cas was dream, anna was death, and naomi was destiny. dean was a prince imprisoned in hell for centuries by azazel, who had usurped lucifer. he had been taught to torture by the corinthian, a wayward nightmare who called itself alastair. dean himself is a pseudo-tulpa born out of his father's desire for the perfect heir. 
> 
> I have four separate parts of this fic with no connective tissue. i'll put two parts in this chapter: the lofty and dramatic exposition, obviously, and also castiel's journey down to hell after his imprisonment to retrieve his sword.
> 
> there's a background of like, violence and unsettling imagery in this and also implications and discussion of gendered violence and misogyny. there is the implied reality that john has forced mary to be with him.

First there was nothing. Then there was the Endless.

To begin with, there was Destiny. Destiny always comes at the beginning and will be the last one to leave in the ending. She knows when every last star in the sky will be extinguished and when exactly the light of their fantastic, brilliant end will reach each creature in the universe.

The thing about the stars is literal, of course, but it is also a metaphor. Destiny knows the moment that you will be doomed, as well as the moment that you and the rest of the world will realize it.

Death came next, of course. Destiny is the core principle, but Death is the end of all things or at least, of most. The majority of destinies arrive to a point where Death takes you away. Only she knows whether that is your true end or yet another beginning. Only she knows where your soul belongs, or if you even have a soul at all to belong to some place.

She has loved you all. She has died herself, many times. Above all, she is kind.

But then came Dream. Now what can be said about Dream? Dream is the third. Dream is what everything lives for. In the maelstrom of confused, purposeless existence there’s seemingly nothing but chaos. But not all bad comes from it. Art. Hope. Love. Those all come from dreams.

There are others but it’s not important yet. Everything comes from these three Endless. They are not people, or even ideas. They are indescribable and forever. They can be killed.

* * *

Once upon a time, a boy was born. This happens a lot and so it shouldn’t have been special. His name was Dean and he was the son of King John Winchester and Mary Campbell. His mother was a woman not from his father’s land, but sought out by him for marriage. He had heard rumours of her gifts and he was not disappointed.

The matrilineal line of her family was descended from the Muses, goddesses of art and science, and inspiration to men. Darkness lives in masculine hearts and the muses were doomed in the way of so many other women, to be imprisoned and used up by male heroes, male artists, male leaders. Those who hold the power denied to women and subjugate them, but nevertheless have no qualms exploiting their energy, their labour and their sparks of insight and innovation.

When John Winchester met Mary Campbell’s father and offered his entire fortune in exchange for her hand, he was not a king. By the time she was expecting their first son, he was. It was all because of her, you see.

She made herself believe she loved him. There was no other option that made her survival easier. For all of time, women have convinced themselves that they love the men they’re chained to. It’s easy enough to convince yourself that this is how love is supposed to feel. That it feels like a sort of nothingness, a giving up of yourself. Love, after all, is about compromise.

We must never talk about how men give nothing of themselves away in return. Never make themselves smaller or hide their voices, sand away their sharp edges, try to seem softer, more worthy of being treated with care. Men’s voices boom in hallways and their steps echo. They make china cabinets falter and shake and threaten to shatter. If they shattered a delicate object in their care, they would pay it no mind.

John didn’t care. He was married, he had a boy and a new baby at home, but they were his possessions, his resources. His wife who provided him with power and heirs to his kingdom and his sons. Dean, his eldest, protector of the kingdom and guardian of his heir, and Samuel, the future Boy King. He went away for weeks at a time, leaving his family alone.

They were alone, genuinely, not in the strange voyeuristic way many royal families are. There were no servants. John grew increasingly paranoid, about his wife, about his son, about the enemies and monsters he saw around them. Mary was not allowed to leave their home. It was never expressly forbidden, there was no signpost nailed to a wall saying  _ No Exit,  _ but John was threatened by shadows, by the wild, by other men.

He kept anger and resentment boiling underneath his skin, the vapours seeping through his pores. People didn’t do things necessarily because he explicitly requested them, but rather because they feared his judgement and his cold, cold eyes. John  _ loved  _ her, so he had said, on their wedding night, and when she had given birth to his sons. He loved her and so he wanted her safe. So, because he wanted her safe, and he loved her, and she loved him, she did not leave.

She cared for her sons and maintained his house. When she looked at Dean and Sam, she felt light bubbling in her heart like water circulating in a fountain. Whenever she felt that emptiness freeze her blood and seem to threaten to stop all movement forward and prevent her from carrying on, she would gaze at their small features and hold their fragile hands in hers. When she looked at them they almost didn’t seem real, like they were constructs she had created and willed to life. They seemed like statues she’d chiselled from stone and prayed to any higher power willing to come to her aid until life had been breathed into them as if Aphrodite had answered her call the way she answered Pygmalion. In those moments she felt as if every part of her was delicate and easily snapped beneath a man’s boot, her heart and soul as easily cracked as her bones. She was starting to learn that loving someone, truly loving them and feeling as if you were the only one who could protect them, was terrifying.

At night, when the princes were asleep, she would stand at her table in the room she stayed in when the king was away. Not her marital bed, but a room for her own things and her own self. She would write poems about loneliness and tear them to pieces, casting the bits into the fire. She stood by herself in the garden and stared up at the moon. Sometimes, she opened the gate and stepped outside for a moment. Only for a minute.

In that year, the year Dean turned four years of age and Samuel was still a baby, Mary Winchester disappeared, leaving behind a circle of blood wreathed with golden hair. No one ever saw her again.

Much later, when Dean Winchester was a young man, he went to Hell. Many people go to Hell and so this shouldn’t have been remarkable either.

Centuries after that, Castiel, though you may know him as Dream, was imprisoned by power hungry men. The description of these men as “power hungry” is a bit of a redundant addition, as groups of men in coalition with one another have as a rule, with few exceptions, been in search of more power, in whatever form it manifests itself within their grasp. As a rule, with even rarer exception, they don’t care what delicate china cabinets they bring crashing to the ground.

This was all destiny. All of it was written down.

* * *

Castiel was at the gate to Hell. It had been many years since he has visited. In the past, when he and the angels spoke, he would travel with them as they went to visit Lucifer, their brother in Creation, the creator and former ruler of this domain.

But Lucifer had been dead for centuries now, and Hell had been under new management for quite some time.

Castiel couldn’t say he liked it. He was notoriously averse to change and prone to paranoia and distrust. His sister, Death, though she liked to be called Anna, believed that it was a part of his nature. From some angles, it was a flaw, but they were not mortal creatures and could not be judged as good or bad in behaviour. It was an aspect of Dream, an aspect of dreaming. Dreams are disjointed, non-linear and confusing, but above all they seek to decode lived experience. Dreams struggle through complexity and mania because above all they long for stability, a way to make sense of all that comes to pass.

So he stood at the gate, and he waited, and he worried, and he did not like it.

He could see a man-shaped figure approaching across the distant fields of Hell. Even from a long way off, he could tell it was a demon. You could always recognize a demon, almost especially one that was man-shaped. There was something off in every movement, infinitesimally and indescribably inhuman. On Earth, women sometimes recognized this, though they didn’t have the words to describe what it is they saw. They would just feel it, like a prickling tingle on the backs of their necks, and they would put as much distance as possible between themselves and the smiling stranger in the corner of the room.

The journey to the gate took a long time. Normally Castiel didn’t mind time, he had an abundance of previous experience with it, and an indeterminate but lengthy amount of experience yet to come. Recent events in his life, however, had made him anxious to make the most out of every possible moment. So by the time the man-shaped demon was making his final approach, he was very anxious and very impatient.

The demon had grey hair and an equally grey and dirty looking beard. His teeth were blunt and human looking but when he smiled, which he did now and often, they seemed as if they were very sharp indeed and very capable of tearing through skin and bone with ease. “Hello, Dream,” he spoke through the bars of the gate, his voice nasally and blood sucking like a mosquito buzzing in your ear on a hot and restless summer night. When he blinked his eyelids open and closed, he did not have eyes at all. Instead, he had teeth where his eyes should be. He grinned at him with his whole face, and Castiel felt his skin crawl.

Well now, this was a nasty surprise. “The Corinthian,” Castiel spoke back, endeavouring not to betray shock or anger. “Tell me, how many of my other creations did Hell steal from me while I was away from my throne?”

Teeth blinked back at him. “I go by Alastair now,” he said. “That’s what they call me,” he opens the gate and invites Castiel inside.

They begin to walk, in silence.

“I came here on my own steam,” Alastair’s eyeteeth click together as he whines. They’re walking past the Suicide Forest. “A Nightmare needs things to do, ya know. I got places to be, faces to eat, and all that.”

Castiel continues to look forward. “So you believe Azazel’s power to be more than my own,” it’s a statement, not a question.

“Never thought of it that way,” he simpers. “I’m all about instant gratification. You just couldn’t gratify anymore.”

Castiel watches thoughtfully as a hellhound rends a soul apart. “I’ve returned now.”

Alastair stopped smiling. “Yes,” he says. “You have.”

A woman is sobbing on the ground in front of them, the sounds of her crying no longer resembling anything human. She wails like an animal, the perfect picture of unrestrained misery.

“That’s what I mean, Dream,” he says. “Hell is the kingdom of Nightmares.”

“You disgust me,” Castiel responds plainly.

Tongues lick each set of his teeth. “I won’t leave with you, of course,” Alastair says. “I’m not a fucking idiot. I didn’t come this far and rise this high just to be unmade in one burst of your will and forgotten like so many fever dreams.”

“I didn’t come for you,” he says.

Alastair sucks the spit down his throat. It makes a disgusting sound. “Oh I know,” he sounds delighted, the way he’d sound if he was watching a baby bird about to be pulverized with stones. “You came for your blade.”

“Where is it,” he’s getting impatient again.

The response is almost sing-song. “The prince has it,” he croons.

“Where is he?” Castiel demands rudely.

Six lines of teeth are bared at him. “He’s in the palace,” Alastair says. “Only place for a prince, after all. That’s where our Lord keeps all his favourite possessions,” his expressions somehow lose nothing in their execution even without eyes, and even gain a new frightening layer of visceral significance. Castiel reflects on his past experiments in terror and wonders, not for the first time, if this one may have been one of his biggest mistakes.

The palace grows closer over the horizon as they continue to walk, the background sounds of abject and total human misery their aural substitute for conversation.

Azazel is there at the gate to meet them, which is unusual and because of this, deeply unsettling. Not for the first time since he arrived in Hell, Castiel is possessed by the overwhelming urge to fly from this horrible place. In fact, this visit has resembled a constant series of moments, one after the other, in which he feels a creeping sense of unease.

The Lord of Hell curls his long white hands around the yellowing bone gate of his palace. “Hail the Lord of the Dreaming,” he rasps through the bars, simpering in a nauseating and unsettling fashion. “What have we done to deserve such an honour?”

This other man-shaped demon inspires even more visceral creeping horror than even Alastair’s grotesque parody of human faced creature does. Azazel is not uniquely terrifying as a result of his creation, though his strange yellow eyes, marbled with veins of cracked black emptiness do nothing to put others at ease. Though he is an ancient demon, and a powerful one, he was not placed on the throne to hell through divine providence or any other incommunicable force at work in the stitching pulling at the fabric of the universe. He ascended to the throne because he is a particularly fucking nasty piece of work and even for a denizen of hell, cares especially little about avoiding sacrilege.

Of course, the final nail in Lucifer’s coffin had been that deal, the exact details of which were still largely unknown by those who had not been directly involved. Even The Endless, save for Destiny herself, of course, didn’t know exactly what had transpired. Death had not accompanied the soul to Hell, because it was not hers to care for anymore. All that they knew was that after Azazel had left Earth with his due, he had faced Lucifer on the field of battle and struck him down forever. There was no chance for a coalition, no opportunity for surrender. Azazel ruled with brutality and he occupied his throne alone.

“Why did you steal my blade?” Dream asks. “Did you not know that I would return?”

Azazel clicks his tongue and sweeps his arm in an affected and exaggerated parody of welcome as the gate swings open to invite them inside. Castiel steps imperiously past it, drawing his cloak around himself.

“I wasn’t trying to step on your toes, Castiel,” his voice moves like a stream choked with mud, slow and gritty. “I came across it in my travels and I thought you might be happy that I had my prince keep it nice and sharp for you. No thanks required.”


	6. the year without a dcbb pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is part 2 of my excerpts from my abandoned 2017 dcbb sandman comics au: a scene where anna reunites with her brother dream, and a scene where cas and dean face off against azazel in the dream realm.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she says.

Castiel looks up from the pigeons. “Hello sister,” he says. “It’s nice to see you too.” The pigeons coo insistently at him and he pulls more bird seed from the air.

Anna is unimpressed. “I haven’t heard from you in one hundred years and that’s your opening? I was worried sick about you, you know,” she smooths the lapel of her leather jacket in neurotic irritation, her red hair whipping around like a flame in the summer breeze.

He sighs. “I am sorry,” he is, really. If he missed anyone, he missed her. “One hundred years is not so much though, for us.”

“You big dummy,” she says, and whacks him in the arm. _Ow,_ he reacts faintly. “One hundred years is _everything,_ especially for us. We aren’t Naomi, we aren’t _Destiny._ ”

“I am sorry Anna,” his face is mournful, looking up at Death. “I was trapped. Summoned and locked away for lifetimes. It was…” he pauses and stares at the ground. “It was…very unpleasant.”

She gazes at him. “Why didn’t you call for me?” her voice is slightly softer. “Why don’t you ever call for me?”

“They were after you,” he says. He flings a handful of seed almost petulantly and the pigeons leap away from the spray in alarm. “They only wanted more power.”

He scowls darkly at the fountain. “They knew not what they did.”

She looks at the fountain with him, still standing next to him as he sits hunched over on the bench. “I assume you punished them,” she watches the water pool in the basin and thinks about cycles and lives and Endlessness.

“Yes,” he says, plainly, still scowling. He pulls at the air again, reaches out a hand and one brave bird tentatively hops forward to receive the new seed.

“Oh Dream,” she says, notes of sadness playing in her voice. He looks up again at the use of his name, the only one that has survived eternity, across language and thought and idea and _dreams._

She lays a hand gently on his shoulder, creasing the fabric of his long black coat. No one has touched him gently in, well, longer than one hundred years. It’s a strange feeling.

“Couldn’t you have let them go?” she says, almost wistfully.

His hand trembles as he holds it out to the birds. “They tortured me,” he says. “Have you ever been trapped alone like that?”

“No,” she admits.

“They would never have done such a thing to _You,_ anyway,” he says, bitterness tinging his voice. “Oh they would have tried, but as soon as they saw the devastation caused by chaining up Death, they would be too afraid to do anything but release You and beg for Your mercy.”

“Your absence caused great suffering,” she says, trying to be reassuring.

“Oh I know,” he says. “I know. But life did not stop. The Dreaming still exists without me. It’s better if I’m there. But it still goes on without me.”

She is silent. The happy sounds of life carry on around them. Children play in the park, the pigeons coo, the fountain bubbles.

“Can you not learn to forgive?” Anna says softly.

“Forgiveness is human,” he says. “We are not.”

She lets the silence carry a few more beats. “Death forgives,” she says.

 _Hm,_ he sounds non-committal.

* * *

“You just hang back little boy,” Azazel says mockingly. “Let the grownups have their fight.”

Thunder rumbles in the sky above the Dreaming. “Get out,” Castiel says. “You have no right to be here. You know the laws,” his eyes are as black as the demon’s and they bleed wispy blue energy.

Azazel laughs. “I am not your brother,” he says. “I am not some ancient has-been, out of place and out of time. I have no need for your pathetic imaginary structures, your tragically outdated customs,” they move around each other, negotiating the field of battle. “I’m the future. I’m what’s coming to pass, right here and right now.”

Castiel scowls. “You’re rambling. You have no power here. No control over what takes place.”

“Oh, don’t I?” he flashes his teeth, suddenly inhuman knife sharp again instead of blunt human vessel dull. “But this is not your dream, Castiel.”

Castiel reacts like he’s been slapped. He whips his head around to meet eyes with Dean, urgently. “Dean,” he says. “This is very important. You have to know what you can-” his voice cuts off in a sickening slow rattle of breath. Azazel is suddenly right in front of him, with a hand buried in his chest, slid in as easily as if he had slid his hand into a basin of water.

Castiel’s eyes widen in unseeing shock, the pupils and irises bleeding into one solid mass of constantly changing colour. Azazel grins and brutally tightens his fist in his chest, groping and gripping for something, pushing past the trappings of a human body that Castiel currently imitates. He latches onto something that most certainly is not part of a mortal being, in the place where a person would have a heart. He twists and Castiel gasps, the air coming out of him like he’s been slashed across the throat and is asphyxiating on his own blood. He might as well be. Whatever it is that sustains him has been stopped by Azazel’s punishing grasping hand, which tugs and pulls and wrenches inside him until it emerges, holding a shining crystal.

Castiel collapses to the ground and does not move any more.

Dean, who had been struck still with horror and fear during this inhuman assault, runs forward swinging the sword up high. Almost with an air of boredom, Azazel flicks his hand and Dean goes flying, the sound of air and wind ending with a dull sickening thud as he smacks unceremoniously into his parent’s graves.

He tries to stand but feels the overwhelming pressure and all-encompassing presence of the power of Hell that Azazel wields pressing him back down. He felt that for millennia, in his own personal prison. Why did he never try to fight it before? Why can’t he fight it now?

“Oh Dean,” Azazel says, in the smuggest tone he has ever heard from him, even when it was just the two of them, Dean on the racks, him with a collection of his favourite knives. “You didn’t even want to be saved. I know you. I know you better than anyone.”

“Go to Hell,” Dean forces out, voice straining under the weight of the power that feels like it’s threatening to collapse his lungs.

The demon laughs. “You always find it in yourself to be flippant even in the worst of times. Someone, somewhere, someday might have found that charming,” he grins and his tone drops low. “I don’t find anything charming.”

He tries to raise himself up by pushing his back against his mother’s grave, pulling himself up inch by inch. He feels the stone protest, groaning and bending backward, not built to withstand this much pressure. Azazel seems to be letting him try. Playing with him like some animals like to bloody their prey before letting them go, catching them, and bloodying them up a little bit more. Like the animals that know they don’t need to worry about being able to kill the smaller, weaker animals once the game has lost its fun.

He doubles over and throws up on the ground. “I should make you eat that,” Azazel threatens, but he still sounds like he’s having fun standing and watching, doesn’t look ready to move in for the kill just yet.

Dean’s stomach heaves again, but it’s empty now and he just retches, reaching an arm behind him to cling to the stone, elbow on top of the grave now. His knees shake violently but he straightens them and draws his sword.

“See now, this,” Azazel adopts a tone like he’s critiquing a film, or offering commentary at an art gallery. “ _This_ is what I live for. You don’t ever give up, do you Dean? Even when you offer up your soul, or tear into bodies in Hell, you still haven’t given up. It’s what I just love so much about you,” he grins wide like a hungry monster. “I could just eat it up.”

Dean doesn’t speak. Isn’t even sure he could. He just tries to strike, flailing forward as Azazel smoothly steps out of the way. His vision is full of spots of colour and he’s breathing in such a laboured way it would almost sound like laughter if it wasn’t so obviously painful.

“This is what makes you so special!” Azazel sounds triumphant. “This is what makes you so much _fun._ ”

Dean whirls around and strikes at him again, this time landing a slash across Azazel’s arm. He almost looks impressed, but Dean doesn’t waste any time and aims directly for his heart. This time, Azazel easily dodges it, flashing out of existence entirely for a moment before reappearing directly behind him. “Hello, Dean,” he breathes in his ear and Dean jumps and tries to run, choking when Azazel uses his arm to grab him around the throat.

“No one else is as fun as you,” he says it in his ear like a secret and Dean cringes away from Azazel’s hot, wet breath. “You don’t even know! No one else.”

He drags him backwards, Dean’s legs kicking and digging at the ground as he tries to escape. It doesn’t appear to hinder him at all. He sits down against the grave of Dean’s father, tightening his grip as he forces Dean to either lie down or be choked to death. “Shh,” he gently strokes Dean’s hair in a mockery of a soothing gesture.

Dean slams his head back into Azazel’s nose and hears a _snap!_ Azazel laughs. “Oh you just keep going! I love it! You were made to keep going. Daddy’s good tin soldier, the warrior prince. Just wind him up and watch him go!”

He starts hysterically beating back at him, elbows him viciously, kicks and flails with everything he has. Azazel just calmly tightens his grip, watching as he gets more desperate, flailing faster like a fish that’s flopping on the deck, trying to get back to safety in its last moments. A fish is no match for anyone. A fish is always gutted quickly.

Just as Dean starts to believe he’s going to die here, like this, not even able to look his killer in the eye in his final moments, Azazel grabs him harshly by the collar and stands, before harshly spinning them around and slamming Dean back against the grave. Spots pop in Dean’s vision and his ears ring like an alarm.

“You’re not even a real boy, Dean,” Azazel sneers, snarling mean and close in his face with a hand fisted in the neck of his shirt. “Just the shattered hopes and dreams of a pathetic, useless old man.”

Blood is running down the side of Dean’s head, warm and scarlet. He spits in Azazel’s face.

He just laughs, not even wiping it, just letting it slide disgusting and slippery down his cheek. “You know what he was thinking when I killed him? He was thinking about what a fucking pathetic excuse for a miracle you were. A pale imitation of a good soldier.”

Dean clutches at the hand holding him against the grave, fingers scrabbling uselessly trying to get some leverage. Azazel laughs harder and chokes him. His fingers flex against Azazel’s knuckles, nails leaving desperate furrows in the skin as he struggles.

“You thought you could get away from me,” It’s a statement, not a question. His eyes flash yellow like every nightmare Dean’s ever had. He picks Dean up by the throat and hurls him across the ground until he lands crumpled in a heap near Castiel’s unconscious form. There’s tear tracks smeared in the dirt on Dean’s face.

“You don’t have anyone, Dean,” a glorious epiphany passes over his face like a sunrise. “You don’t have anyone to hide behind anymore,” he kicks him in the stomach.

He grins and his teeth look sharp now, like knives. “You just have me. You’ll always have me.”

He holds the crystal aloft. “I’m going to kill Dream,” he says, triumphantly, and shatters it in his hand.

The sequence of events here gets confusing. Dean screams. There’s others too, screaming. There’s different sounds. Different images. Flashes of people all over the world bolting up in their beds. Everything is suddenly white, but also not. Whiter than white. Empty. There’s absolutely nothing here anymore. Dream is gone.

“I did it,” Azazel, for all his apparent confidence since the moment he arrived in the place he should never have been able to break into, seems stunned. “Jesus Christ, I did it. I killed Him. No one’s ever killed Him.”

“I’m a God,” he says and Dean shivers. He wonders if it would have been better not to be taken from Hell. He thinks it would have been. He wouldn’t have had to try so hard. Wouldn’t have had so much hope. Hell will be so much worse now, he knows. Going back will be even worse than when he first was dragged down when he made his Deal centuries ago.

Azazel will love it.

“I’m a God,” Azazel repeats and Dean hasn’t cried in millennia, but he cries now.

 _No,_ says a voice. It’s coming from everywhere, sounds like it’s coming from the sky up above them, filling in this absence of space. _No you are not._

Castiel is there. He is impossibly large, a giant holding them in the palm of his hand. The lines in his palm are a valley, the slope of his wrist is a mountain.

“Thank you Azazel,” he says. “It’s been so long, I had forgotten how much of myself I placed in that object, how much I relied on it. Now all my soul is free.”

His eyes glow blue and Dean’s wounds are healed. “And this is Dean’s dream,” he says.

The Dream sword is in Dean’s hand in an instant and he looks Azazel directly in the eye when he stabs him through the chest.


	7. there's something stuck in my throat oh wait it's my own tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just the beginning of a preseries au that exists because I was depressed and reflecting on how often I went without speaking and I projected onto Dean once again. it was going to be a deancas fic (yes the man in the trenchcoat is who you think it is) but it never got further than this.

Sometimes it hit him that he never talked to anyone. Today he had used his voice three times, once to the motel clerk when he dropped off his keys, twice to order an extra large black coffee and a breakfast burrito, and the third and final time to apologize to the tall man in the trenchcoat he’d bumped into on his way out of the coffee shop. 

The realization came differently, sometimes he’d be driving down some old country road in his car and he would try to sing along to a song on the stereo and feel his voice chafe his throat, rusty from lack of use, or he’d try to introduce himself to a witness and have to cough a few times, like he was trying to force the sounds out of his mouth. Sure, he spoke to people, he asked questions and favours and made accusations and propositions, but he hadn’t had a real fucking conversation in, shit, god knew how long. Even when Dad and Sammy had been with him, he had sometimes gone days without really talking. 


	8. it's not gay if it's bodysharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no memory of writing this one! dean and cas have to share a body for some reason. it's titled casefic in my drive so obviously some kind of monster is involved. i have car banter and then a ghoul attack. that's all i have to offer you.
> 
> I recently beta'd a wangxian bodysharing fic for my dear friend [mara](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28057233) so finding this was extra delightful.

_I swear to God, man, you better not get pulled over because I don’t think the cops are gonna buy “empty angel vessel” as an explanation for why I got a human body in my trunk._

“Have some faith, Dean,” Cas says with Dean’s own mouth, and boy if that isn’t one of the weirdest things he’s ever heard in his life. “I’m an excellent and conscientious driver.”

_We could always Weekend at Bernie’s this shit, get the ol’ vessel in the passenger seat with sunglasses and a hat on._

Dean watches himself frown in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

_I was kidding around. Mostly._

* * *

Dean wakes up choking. 

A woman is clutching his face almost tenderly in both her cold hands, hovering over him like she’s about to embrace him. He gasps panicked, eyes moving wildly like a terrified animal. The pulse point in his throat flutters under her hands and she dips her face closer to him until their lips are inches from each other. She inhales and he splutters, feeling the air being drawn out from deep in his lungs through his throat. He thrashes around as spots begin to burst in his vision, black with blood red around the edges. 

He feels the bright melting sensation that signifies Castiel taking over the reigns. Dean had basically forgotten about their current scifi symbiote type deal, what with having his breath literally taken away and all. All right. So he’s not gonna die today. Perks of having an angel up your ass.

Cas doesn’t need to breathe like Dean does, so he instantly gains a burst of energy. He snaps his arms up and pushes the monster away with the full force of his current, rather substantial if Dean does say so himself, heavenly grace. The thing topples off the bed and shrieks, nightmare worthy, from the floor where she’s landed. Fight or flight move now. Cas, to his credit as a military battle strategist, chooses flight, which is probably the wisest call given that they’re currently shirtless, half-asleep and without weapons or any poorly pronounced latin incantations. 


	9. demon dean is a feminist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's demon dean but she's a lesbian! cas is also a lesbian. most of this is a scene rewrite where I pull a lot of canon dialogue. it felt like pulling teeth when I was doing it. remind me never to try doing that again. it's like editing. a very small bit at the end is cas being anguished while dean tries to seduce her. 
> 
> warning for homophobic slurs, homophobia, misogyny

At the door, Mindy kisses her on the cheek. “I had a nice time,” she says quietly, her lips still close enough to Dean’s face for her to feel Mindy’s breath on her skin. She leans into it for half a second despite herself, closing her eyes.

The moment doesn’t last. Dean grins at her and winks. “Me too, babe,” she replies. “You were great.”

Mindy rolls her eyes at the bravado and posturing in Dean’s tone, but she still looks fond. “I’m not gonna ever see you again, am I?” it’s barely a question. She knows what this is. Dean knows she knows what this is. She knows Dean knows she knows. Long story short, everyone just knows everything around here. Everyone is knowing as hell.

“I don’t think so,” she replies. “But hey-good luck with your divorce.”

“Oh _god,_ ” Mindy groans. “Don’t remind me,” she chews her lip. “He’s making everything so fucking impossible. I can’t imagine why he gives a shit, it’s not like he gives a shit about _me._ ”

Dean shakes her head. _What a shame, what a shame. What is the world coming to._ “Men, amirite?” she offers flippantly, raising her eyebrows. Mindy nods furiously, fiercely.

In her jacket, she can feel the perfectly balanced weight of the First Blade. “Well hey,” she winks. “Keep your chin up. I’ve got a good feeling things will work out soon,” with her enhanced hearing, she can hear now the sound of a car turning the corner, the first one to intrude on this quiet suburban street all night. The blade feels so heavy in her pocket. “And not for nothing, but my instincts tend to be pretty much on the mark.”

Mindy steps back in, hand on the doorknob. “Well, I hope you’re right,” she says. “At this point I feel like I need a fucking angel to come down from the clouds and give me a miracle.”

“Good night, Mindy,” Dean’s eyes are itching to turn black. Earlier that night, at the bar, Mindy had told her that her green eyes were so lovely. Part of Dean had wanted to blink demon eyes back at her and ask her what she thought about them. Another part of her, (a very small part that Dean liked to stomp on and crush and shove deep deep down) had just been glad someone thought she was beautiful. That someone wanted her.

Mindy leaned on the doorframe. “Good night, Dean,” she said, and softly smiled before pulling it closed.

Dean waited until she heard the _click jingle click_ of the door being locked before putting her hand in her jacket and stalking over to the parked car across the road.

Lester Morris is staring nervous and excited through his window shield at the dark house, his dark moustache practically twitching with voyeuristic anticipation. Dean approached the passenger side and swung in without fanfare. Idiot should keep his damn doors locked.

He stares at her with wide eyes. “Hey!” he protests as she sinks comfortable against the seat. “Hey!” he repeats when she doesn’t give him an immediate reaction.

Dean doesn’t have to mess with him. But she will. Because it’s fun, and because she can. She finds that her whole world has shrunk down to that small, selfish little space of animal motivation. So sue her. She’s dead now, after all. Not like anyone gives a fuck what she does.

She smiles suggestively at him. “No need to freak out,” she blinks slow, emphasizing her long eyelashes. “Just thought you looked lonely,” she winks at him and feels a sudden surge of red black dark deep hatred rise like bile in her throat when his eyes widen even further. He looks at her like he actually might touch her. A wave of revulsion makes her shudder minutely. Never mind. She doesn’t want to play around any more.

If he tries to touch her she’ll cut his fucking fingers off one by one.

“Not really,” she amends quickly, still feeling like her skin is crawling. She doesn’t know why she thought that would be funny. She doesn’t understand herself much anymore. “Lester, right?

“I…who are you,” he stammers and she sighs heavily to let him know just how totally fucking stupid he is. Her eyes flicker black. “Whoa,” he looks totally gormless. She watches a brief flash of fear race across his features, before his rational mind catches up with him and he looks relieved. “Ohhh!” he exclaims, like some wink wink nudge nudge shit. Like they’re in on a heist together or something. Or anything else really, besides a plan to murder his wife.

“ _Ohh_ ,” she echoes mockingly. “What the hell are you doing here, man?” she says quickly, flashing her best _You’re a Total Fucking Waste of Skin_ smile.

He sits up straighter in his seat and stutters again, trying to sound professional. Trying to sound cool. “Well,” he begins, throat working. “My _contact_ …Yeah, he, uh-he told me that, uh, this was happening, so I just wanted to come down and make sure it gets done right,” he puts emphasis on _make sure it gets done right,_ as if he’s some sort of world-renowned expert on spousal homicide.

Dean just cannot fucking believe the balls on this guy.

“Ah,” she says, nodding as if she completely understands. He nods once back, looking twitchy. Her voice drips with contempt. “‘Cause you’re the expert, huh? Listen - and this is murder 101 - when you hire someone to kill your wife, you don’t want to be around when the hit goes down. It’s called an alibi.”

Miraculously, Lester still seems to think he’s retained even one shred of credibility or dignity. “Yeah,” he replies. “I know what an alibi is. I watch _Franklin & Bash.”_

 _Are you fucking kidding me,_ she thinks. “Super!” she declares, bright and sarcastic. “Listen, you sold your soul for this crap, so -” _So why go to jail for it you absolute tool._

“It’s not crap!” his tone is vehement. “It’s my life…And she flushed it down the toilet.”

Dean sighs. This guy. _This guy._

“Les,” she says, smoothly. “I’m gonna say something to you. I need you to really listen to me…” You’re a loser,” she ignores his noise of indignation. “Your lady in there – she’s too good for you. Now, I don’t blame her for stepping out – especially if she found out you were messing around first.”

“No,” Lester lies quickly. “Oh, no. I-I wasn’t…” he caves when Dean tilts her head at him and smirks. “Uh-how do you know?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, you just got that, uh, pervy, _I’d do anything to nail my secretary_ look,” she says. “Plus I was just in there,” she points at the dark windows of the house. “Wanted to get all the facts, you know.”

“Why would you-” he’s stammering again. “Why would you care why would you do that I made a _deal,_ ” he hisses.

“Oh Lester,” she shakes her head at him. Okay, this is getting fun again. “Why do I do anything? I’m a demon, remember,” he looks a little more scared of her, which she appreciates. “Maybe I just didn’t like your face. Or your fuckin’ ugly moustache…which-seriously dude? It’s not the 70s. Get a razor and go to town.”

“A man has-has _needs,_ ” he protests weakly. She laughs.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “And I’m so sure you know shit about _women’s_ needs. I’d guess that you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t feel responsible for uh, let’s say _reciprocity,_ but I don’t gotta guess. Because I know. She told me that too.” He stutters _why would she say that-why would she_ and Dean just looks at him with disdain. “ _Man,_ you’re dense. Connect the dots, Lester!”

He looks at her in horror. “That’s-” he sounds revolted. “That’s disgusting…Is-is that why you went to Hell?” Well. She wasn’t really expecting him to say something like that.

And isn’t it just a real dumpster load of irony that a guy like that still has the nerve.

Dean feels a muscle jump in her jaw and bares her clenched teeth at him. “I could care less what you think of me,” she lets him absorb that for a moment. “But we’re getting off topic. You cheating hypocrite.”

“Oh. No,” he’s sort of leaning away from her now. “T-that – it’s different when guys do it.”

“Really?” Dean says. _Oh please enlighten us, Mr. Morris._

He seems to have gained a second wind. “Yeah,” he says, firmly. “It’s called ‘science’.”

“Oh?” she replies, just begging him to finish that thought. Come on. Come on, I dare you.

His stupid moustache quivers. “Men aren’t built for monogamy,” he asserts. “Because of evolution. We’re – we’re – we’re programmed, you know, to – to spread our seed.”

Dean winds her arm back and punches him in the mouth. His head snaps into the window with a _crack._

He’s bleeding when he turns to look at her, eyes wild with anger. She almost hopes he tries to take a swing back. Just see what happens, pal. Just you try it and find out.

“Like I said,” Dean talks over his exclamations of pain. “Loser, with a capital L, rhymes with _you suck._ ”

He’s breathing heavily, she can hear how fast his heart is pounding. “Yeah?” he retorts harshly. “Well, you’re a worthless demon dyke! And you work for me now. So get in there and do your job, you freak!”

She looks at him coldly. “And what are you gonna do?” her tone crawls with icy venom. “You gonna watch, huh? Is that what you like to do, Lester? Watch?” she pulls the First Blade from her pocket outside his line of sight. “Well, watch this.”

She moves so fast. He chokes out his last breaths with the blade buried deep in his chest. When the sputtering and struggling stops, she yanks it out and wipes it on his jacket.

“You know,” she says. “You’re going to Hell now. You really should have been nicer to me.”

She has the presence of mind to heave his body out of the driver’s seat and onto the floor of the back. 

* * *

Cas stands abruptly, pushing Dean off her lap. She lands on her ass on the motel room carpet with a small _oof._ “Ow,” she says, flatly. “You know, that wasn’t really very angelic of you,” she grins up at Cas from the floor.

“Why are you doing this,” Cas says in a quiet, choked voice. “Are you-is this to punish me? Are you trying to punish me for not saving you? Dean, _stop,_ ” she says, voice shaking. “We can fix this. Come back with me. Your sister and I-”

Dean scoffs loudly, dismissively. “Just _what part of this is not clicking for you,_ ” she says venomously. “I don’t have a _sister,_ I’m not your _friend._ I died, okay? Do you get that? I died. Dean died, and now all you get is me. That’s all there is.”

“I really loved you, Cas,” Dean grimaces like she’s retelling someone else’s embarrassing story. “Wanted you to like…stay with me. Wake up next to you. Hold my hand and shit.”

“I can stay,” Cas says softly.


	10. what even is the girl equivalent of "jimmy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this is the last one. feels a bit anti-climactic but here we are. 
> 
> again, a lesbian scene rewrite. was going to rewrite the entire episode this way. insane stuff. 
> 
> the idea behind this is that jimmy (janey!) novak falls in love with dean together with cas, as a part of her. was going to Get Into the experience of being a closeted christian housewife who quite literally gave up her body. feel like I can just fill in the rest from my mind palace.

When she wakes, she’s looking at an angel.

Well, for a moment, that’s what she thinks. For a moment her brain lags and fails to log online and she thinks _Oh. I’m dead._

But then she thinks, _No, that’s not right. I’m alive._

She’s not really sure the Bible talks about any angels who look like women with short windswept hair and battered leather jackets. Maybe they should.

“Sam!” the girl is yelling for someone else. “Cas?” 

_She’s talking to me,_ she thinks, dreamily. _But I don’t think that’s my name?_

“Cas,” she pulls at her shoulder, helping her stand. “Hey, Cas?”

She takes stock of herself, stumbling like she’s just learned to walk. She grips the lapels of the dirty trenchcoat she’s wearing and moves her neck, feeling the absence of the weight of long hair that she’d accepted as inalterable reality her entire life. 

“What’s-” she quivers in place. She drinks in the sight of the girl, who looks confused and terrified. _I know you. I think. But not through my eyes._ “What’s-” she tries again. Speech feels heavy in her mouth, like she’s woken up from a long long sleep and her mouth is dry and glued together. “What’s going on?” she feels the frisson of panic rush warm to hot from the base of her spine to the stem of her brain. 

“Just take it easy,” she’s holding her hands up like she’s scared she’ll lash out. 

_Oh it’s Deanna,_ she thinks. _Dean. She’ll keep me safe._

“Take it easy,” Dean repeats. She almost does. But then she remembers.

“Oh. No,” her hands shake. _William and Claire, holy shit._

_What have I done?_

“Cas, you okay?” Dean’s sister rushes up, face full of concern. 

_Cas. Who’s Cas?,_ she thinks. _I’m not Cas. At least not now, in this moment._

_Oh. Castiel._

She coughs, clears her throat. “Castiel. I’m not Castiel,” she pauses. “It’s me,” she says, frowning. _How is it me?_

“Who’s ‘me’?” she looks scared too.

They don’t have to be scared. It’s all right now. 

“Janey,” she says, and wants to cry. “My name’s Jane.”

There’s a beat of silence. Dean looks terrified now and Jane wants to find out how to convince her everything will be okay. Doesn’t she see everything can be okay now? 

It can be perfect again.

“Where the hell is Castiel?” Dean demands, almost accusatory.

Jane looks at her. Gazing into her eyes makes her feel like she’s making eye contact with a frightened deer. The thought comparison feels strange to her. She’s never even seen a deer up close. 

Whose memories are these?

“She’s gone.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [abettersondaughter](https://abettersondaughter.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [godtiering](https://twitter.com/godtiering) on twitter! see you out there, same bat time, same bat channel.


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